


Beans

by claire_debonair



Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claire_debonair/pseuds/claire_debonair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's even a fancy word for it: rehabilitation. The army psychiatrist used to like using it, to make sure he was aware that things were probably going to be difficult for him to start with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beans

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by my new and lovely friend Jamie who did a great - and very fast - job on this. Written for prompt #18 'rehabilitation' for my a_to_z_prompts table.

It's one of those nice, suburban neighbourhoods that you see on property shows and in crime dramas, which is a juxtaposition if ever there was one, but that's what Becker thinks about the area. He moves in at the beginning of August, carrying his collection of boxes inside to the noises of children playing drifting in through his windows, constantly having to abandon his task for ten minutes or so in order to stop and make small talk.

It must be the heat, he reckons; children love it, and children outside means parents keeping a careful eye on what's happening in the street. There's no way they'd miss him, a young man moving in alone, and he gets more than one woman armed with fresh scones, or homemade lemonade, or an invitation to a barbecue turning up on his doorstep throughout the day.

He accepts the scones and lemonade to be polite, says he'll think about the barbecues, and goes back to his task.

\---

A routine develops, gradually. At first it was strange to wake up to the sound of a radio, not the strident tones of the barracks alarm, and he keeps reminding himself that he doesn't have to get up this early any more; his new job starts at nine, but his alarm remains set to six thirty. In the time before he has to leave, he runs down the street and then left into the huge park ten minutes walk away. He can do five miles easily, using the winding paths, but he normally does double. He can't seem to train himself out of the habit.

When he does leave, around half eight, there are plenty of other people just getting into their cars. They wave to him, and he waves back. Four mornings out of five he tells himself to stop, just for a moment, and chat: introduce himself, ask their names, where they're heading to, perhaps wish them good luck in avoiding the London traffic. The ingrained feeling of _moving on soon, no point_ is still too strong, though, and he doesn't do more than wave for a few weeks.

The evenings are easier; his hours are sometimes strange, depending on whom he's training that day, and what he's training them in, so there's less chances for him to talk to his new neighbours. By the time he's finished most of them are already home, and the ones his return does coincide with have generally just picked up children from after school clubs, so their attempts at conversation are invariably cut short by interruptions from the kids.

Slowly, held back by Becker's apparent inability to force himself to do this very easy thing (well, easy compared with the rest of his life up until now), he gets to know the people he does overlap with, first to the point of calling out a greeting, then to where he's able to ask a question or two about their day. He even starts to give actual answers in return, instead of stock phrases than make it seem as if he doesn't actually do anything.

\---

A mostly nine-to-five job is something he's got to settle back into, and it takes a while. For the last five years his job has started when he's told it will, and ended when he's no longer being shot at.

\---

There's a snap in the air when he gets yet another knock at his door, twilight just beginning to shade into real darkness, and he can anticipate what it's going to be about. Becker knows that he's been here long enough for people to start trying to include him properly. It seems like that kind of area; there are Neighbourhood Watch signs up everywhere, posters for local events and gatherings on seemingly every lamppost he passes. It's nice, if a little foreign to him.

_Put down some roots_, he thinks, and goes to open the door.

Sarah is nice, in a slightly awkward kind of way; he gets the feeling that she's about as good at small talk as he is, and he finds himself making more of an effort than usual. "Tea?" He asks, because it's what you _do_, and the atmosphere becomes slightly less forced when she smiles. Her gaze flickers over the unpacked boxes set in a corner of his new living room, and he sees the slight but well-hidden surprise on her face when it clicks how long he's had to unpack.

After a pause she says, "Please." As he puts the kettle on to boil, she comments, "It's an icebreaker, isn't it? Tea, I mean."

"Almost like a rite of passage," he says, more to see what she'll respond with than any agreement. The tension lessens even more as she laughs.

"Absolutely. Speaking of rites of passage..."

There's a glint in her eye that tells him he's not going to like what she's going to say, but that he also won't be able to get out of it. It's like being faced with his commanding officer again, only Sarah is considerably smaller and doesn't seem to have the same love for expletives (at least, he doesn't think so. It is early days, after all). She's got the same steel to her, though, wrapped up in a kind smile.

                                                         
"There's a quiz night on Saturday, sort of a get together for the whole street." She leans forward, hands wrapped around her mug in the manner of one accustomed to using the heat of a drink to keep herself focused; a teacher, Becker thinks, or maybe a lawyer. She's got that scholarly air, somehow. "It'd be a good way for you to get to know some people around here - even if you don't plan on being at every party and social gathering," she adds, and he smiles slightly.

"I'll think about it."

\----

Sarah leaves her number, and a couple of days later he feels slightly guilty at having to call her with an apology. She understands, of course: "The university drops piles of paperwork on me at a moment's notice like this all the time, don't worry about it," but he ends up promising to come to the next quiz, drowned in paper or not.

It isn't a deliberate attempt to keep himself isolated, he reasons, but it feels like it.

\---

Stephen Hart is the first person he meets at work who he thinks he can be friends with without needing the sort of effort that he hasn't quite managed with his neighbours up until now. Stephen isn't military, which helps somewhat; Becker is discovering that he finds it easier talking to someone whose life isn't full of things like Black Ops and files with 'Classified' stamped across their covers. They talk about the men they're training, where to get the best coffee near to their building, and sports. Normal things.

Becker hasn't done normal for years.

\---

Training ex-military, ex-police and all manner of security personnel and bodyguards can lead to a lot of headaches and issues, because every institution has its way of doing things, and when that way smacks up against how Becker and his fellow instructors work things get messy. Not to mention the amount of problems he has with the private sector; sometimes Becker feels that if yet another company sends him yet another bunch of idiots to train into a personal protection force, he's going to re-enlist.

Perhaps wisely, the facility has a psychiatrist on its books. The first time Becker meets him, it's just one more thing that makes the entire place seem like nothing more than an offshoot of the Ministry of Defence - which it is, but they could be a little more subtle about it. It'd put Becker more at ease, at least. It helps that Captain Ryan is a soldier-turned-shrink, for reasons Becker doesn't ask about for quite a while.

He asks the questions he's required to ask, like how Becker's settling in, if he's got any problems, and then says that unless something drastic happens, he'll see Becker once every couple of months.

"Technically I should see you once a week for two months, but there's no reason to prolong the agony," he says with a grin. "And I'm sure you've got better things to be doing than wasting time in here when there's nothing wrong."

"Thank you," is all Becker says, although he does return the smile; he's grateful, sure, but he still wants out of there as soon as he can manage it. He trusts his instincts - and his training - to let him know when he's got a problem serious enough to talk to Ryan, but that isn't now.

\---

He's spared another deluge of paperwork the next time the Saturday quiz night comes around, so when Sarah calls to make sure he's still okay he can tell her yes with a clear conscience and only a slight twinge of discomfort. It must show in his voice, though; Sarah's tone turns concerned, asking if he's sure he wants to come. "I don't want to force you to meet the rest of the street," she says, "and if it's really not your thing then we'll have you over for dinner, something small."

"I want to be there," he reassures her, and it's mostly true. He's done far scarier things than this, after all.

At the quiz he meets Danny, who takes one look at him and pegs him for military, informing him of this fact with a grin and a beer pressed into his hand. For his part, Becker relaxes a bit (although not too much), and tells Danny that it hadn't taken more than five seconds to make him as a copper. Danny laughs, slinging an arm across his shoulder and claims Becker for his team. Sarah joins them after a few minutes, breathless as she complains about having too many essays to mark, tipping her face back for a quick kiss from Danny.

People flow into the community centre until it's half seven and the tables are all full, teams of people laughing with each other and swapping news about their weeks. It's miles away from the sort of company Becker normally keeps; more noise, for one thing, and almost no discipline, at least until a man in a suit approaches the microphone set on the small stage and calls for order.

"James Lester," Sarah leans over to say to him. "Headmaster at the local school. He organises the quiz nights." Becker nods, filing the information away in the back of his mind. It's a habit, and not one he's trying to break. Across the table from him is a woman that Sarah introduced as Jenny, and who Becker can tell is a civil servant straight away. It's obvious from the way she acts, smooth manners and an easy smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Professionally warm, and from the way her gaze flickers over him assessing, high up enough to recognise military when she sees it.

The answer papers have just been handed round when the fifth member of the team arrives, a woman with punky hair and tartan trousers who sticks her hand out and says, "Abby," before shifting her attention to Sarah and informing her that, "Connor's not coming. He's neglected the prep for Monday until the last minute, so I left him having a panic."

It makes no sense to Becker, but he finds himself wanting it to.

\---

His - well, its sort of his - team comes third, and as they walk out into the warm, humid night Abby moans about Connor's lack of organisational skills while Danny blames their loss on this as-yet unknown member of their regular group.

Abby zips off in a tiny little car, arm stuck out of the window to wave. The three of them wave back, Sarah stopping to hit Danny in the side as he yells for Abby to watch out for post boxes.

"That was _once_, don't be so mean," she says. Danny laughs.

"Need a lift home?" He asks. "I came straight from work, so we're driving back." It's two miles, maybe a little less, and Becker runs five times that before breakfast most days.

"I'd rather walk, thanks. Still getting to know my way around," he tells them, and watches Sarah nod understandingly. He thinks she's guessed, at least a little, what he's doing here, in such a typically suburban street when it's clear that that's not who he is.

It doesn't surprise him when he's able to put names to those who wave at him as they go past in cars, even though he hasn't spoken to them since he first moved in; collecting and remembering information is part of his job, even now. It's still nice that they acknowledge him, and he smiles as he waves in turn. Turning into his driveway, he notices a car parked in front of the house to the left, boot open and a man swearing at several overflowing cardboard boxes.

"Want a hand?" It pops out of his mouth before he can think, simple courtesy like he's been offered by just about everyone else on the street at some point. The stranger pulls his head out of the boot, twisting to look over at him.

"Thanks," he says, straightening. "I think the boxes have got mildew; I barely got them into there without them collapsing."

Hopping over the small box hedge that separates their driveways, Becker leans down to look, pressing against one of the boxes with his fingertips. It's damp and faintly spotted. "No way they’re going to manage another trip," he says. "I've got some boxes left over from moving in, hang on."

Pulling the packing boxes down from their place on top of his wardrobe, it occurs to Becker that this is what the army psychiatrist he had to see would have called a 'big step.' She'd probably have capitalised it, too. Once he gives the boxes away, he can't move at a moment's notice again. He stands in his bedroom for a moment, turning them over in his hands, and then hurries back down the stairs.

Back outside, the man has gone, but his front door is wide open, light streaming out to illuminate the car, which has its boot still open. Becker glances inside, but can only see a hallway and part of a messy living room. Taking the open door for the invitation it seems to be, he assembles one of the flat packed boxes and carefully puts a mildewed box into it, grimacing as the side begins to pull away from the base as he manoeuvres it. Surprised at the weight of what looks like academic papers, he carries the whole thing into the house, hesitating in the entrance to the living room while he wonders where to put it.

"Just shove it anywhere," comes the instruction from somewhere to his left. "I'm Nick, by the way. Nick Cutter."

Becker carefully puts the box down, noticing that it really doesn't matter where he does so, because the entire floor seems filled with similar collections, as well as piles of loose papers and books. "Becker," he returns, offering a hand.

Nick shakes, one eyebrow raised, "Very mysterious. Always forget to use your first name, do you?"

"Pretty much."

"Military," Nick says with a roll of his eyes. "C'mon, help me with the rest and you'll get a Scotch."

"Can't argue with that."

\---

Becker's sitting on an ancient but extremely comfortable sofa an hour later, halfway through his second Scotch and feeling more relaxed than he has in a long time. Cutter doesn't care about small talk or being polite; beyond pouring Becker's first glass of alcohol he does away with any pretence at a civilised conversation, setting the bottle on the cluttered coffee table between them and proceeding to talk about anything and everything, regardless of whether or not he thinks Becker is keeping up.

In a natural lull, Becker asks, "How'd you know I'm military?"

"Sarah told me." Becker nods. It's what he suspected. "We work in the same university. Different departments, but still. She knew we were neighbours before we did, apparently."

"That might be because you're never here," he says, surprising himself with the slight sarcasm; it should take a lot longer before he feels comfortable enough to do that, but it must be the alcohol. Or Cutter's reassuringly easy company. Cutter shrugs, smile wry.

"Fair enough. I can't remember the last time I didn't sleep at the university, to be honest." He snorts, shaking his head. "My lab technician kicked me out in the end."

"Bossy?"

"Annoyed. If I stay, he has to."

"Ah." Becker smiles, nodding. He gets that.

"Connor's mentioned you as well. That's my technician," he adds. "He's friends with Abby."

"Gossip gets around," Becker says, wry.

By the time he leaves, the bottle is mostly empty and he's got a firm, if slightly eccentric, friend in Nick Cutter. He also knows more about fossils than he ever expected to, and an invitation for a tour around the university. He'll go, maybe.

\---

Come Sunday morning he's pressed into helping clean up the local churchyard, pulling weeds and scrubbing gravestones under Sarah's benevolent but strict eye. At some point Abby turns up, hair startlingly bright in the weak October sun as she drags a strimmer from the back seat of her car and sets to work on the overgrown grass to one side of the church. A couple of kids follow her with rakes, clearing away the cuttings so that someone else can come along later with a lawn mower.

Finished clearing the path up to the main doors of weeds and other debris, Becker straightens, only to see Danny coming towards him with a purposeful air. "Can't I even catch my breath?"

"Pull the other one, you're an army man. This should be nothing." Grinning, Danny lifts a chainsaw. "We need someone to cut back the trees along the fences. Interested?"

He's aching, thirsty and still not entirely sure that this whole 'community spirit' thing is a good idea, but Becker has never turned down the chance to chop something up with power tools. Danny claps him on the back when he holds out a hand, grin getting wider.

"Good man. Nick'll help, if the hangover isn't too bad."

On his way over to where Sarah is beckoning him, Becker glances around for Nick, but the professor is nowhere in sight. With a mental shrug, he carries on. They live next door to each other; chances are they're going to run into each other soon anyway.

"Reporting ready for duty, ma'am," It's tempting to finish that with a salute, but he's only willing to play up to the military thing to a certain point in order to get a smile.

"Oh good," Sarah says with relief, "someone I'd actually trust with a chainsaw." She pitches her voice slightly louder for the last part, looking over to where Danny is fixing Abby's strimmer. He smiles, hoisting the tool onto his shoulder.

"Where am I hacking first?"

Ten minutes later he's balanced partly on a ladder and partly on a thick branch, legs braced for support as he starts the chainsaw and directs it at the branch Sarah has directed him to. Thankfully it's not the one he's leaning on, like the first time he'd got settled. She backs out of the way as bits of wood start flying, a pair of safety goggles identical to the ones Becker is wearing perched on her nose. With a wrenching crack the branch falls away, and Sarah directs him to the next one.

He's been at the job for a good hour when Nick does finally turn up, accepting a smaller chainsaw from Danny and making his way over to where Becker is still perched in a tree.

"Want a hand?" Nick calls up with a grin. Becker resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead slipping his ear defenders back on and starting up the chainsaw in his hand. Nick winces at the noise, moving back with a good-natured grimace. He starts on the heap of wood that Becker's already culled from the row of trees, chopping it into more manageable pieces. A skinny young man comes over to help stack up the end result into roughly even piles, each one wrapped around with strong twine.

By the time Sarah is satisfied with his cutting the chainsaw is almost out of petrol and close to overheating, not to mention that he aches from having to keep himself balanced against branches and tree trunks for most of the morning. It's a relief to get back onto firm soil again and even more so when he follows Abby around to the other side of the church and sees trestle tables set up with a buffet lunch brought by various helpers. He finds himself alternating between eating and talking, constantly having to balance his paper plate on one palm in order to shake someone else's hand.

Everyone on the street seems to have turned out to help, some weeding, some repairing, some making the lunch and drinks, but they're all friendly to the point where Becker starts to feel awkward and borderline uncomfortable, not sure if he can take yet another person asking him what he does for a living. It must show from behind the carefully polite and neutral mask he's been working on for years, because Sarah corners him and asks if he'd mind helping wash up the lunch things.

The kitchen in the small hall attached to the church is near silent, especially after the clamour of the gathering outside; Becker finds himself washing cup and cutlery in a huge sink next to Abby, who doesn't say much after giving him an appraising look. Apparently it really _is_ that obvious that he's getting mildly freaked out by the sheer level of social interaction that's going on right now. They wash, and when the heap of dirty things gets small enough for him to work through quickly enough on his own, Abby goes and grabs the skinny young man he recognised from earlier to help dry.

"This is Oliver," she says by way of introduction. Oliver just nods, tea-towel in hand. Becker gets the impression that he's like that most of the time, unless he's trying to impress someone, and then he’ll probably be supercilious and awkwardly ingratiating; it’s there in how he reacts to Jenny when she brings in another set of plates. Becker's met quite a few people like that, over the years and ranks.

After, wiping his hands on his jeans, he goes back out into the weak afternoon sun, feeling like he could stand to finish his allotted job. It's what he does, after all, but at least this time he won't get arrested for leaving before all the branches are cut up. "Tired already?" He greets Nick, sitting on a branch and nursing a mug of tea.

"Hung over," comes the dry response. "And you bloody aren't, so get chopping."

Becker hefts an axe someone has helpfully put ready, seeing as no one thought to bring more petrol, and grins down at Nick. "By the sounds of it you've been drinking so long you're practically pickled."

"You've been talking to Sarah," Nick accuses, squinting up at him as he starts stripping off the smaller branches. "What's your secret?"

"A four-month long training camp in Siberia."

Nick groans. "Scotch is probably like water to you, then."

"Not quite," he says, swinging the axe down and lopping off the first of many branch sections. "But it takes more than what we drank to give me a hangover." Nick just glares, cradling his tea and remains where he is, which is quite helpfully sitting on the end of the branch that Becker is cutting. It keeps it from bouncing too much. He moves when Becker asks him to, so he can upend the last piece and split in two before into chunks lengthways like the others, the heavy _thock_ of metal against wood making Nick wince in Becker's peripheral vision.

"You could move," he says. "This can't be helping."

"Sarah says I have to help," Nick says darkly. "Something about karma, and how I knew I was helping today."

Becker grins and points at another branch, deciding not to comment. Nick takes a seat, still holding on to his mug like it’s ambrosia, and Becker carries on.

\---

Sometime around half seven, just as the light starts to fade, people begin to say their goodbyes and pack away whatever they brought to help. Sarah stands at the lych gate, thanking them all, while Danny helps load cars and make sure nothing is forgotten. Most of them wave to Becker, and he waves back, reminding himself of names as they leave. Oliver slinks off without saying anything to anyone, except Danny, and that's only because he yells a goodbye down the street. Abby gives him a careful hug before shoving the temperamental strimmer back into her car and driving off.

He's just finished the third from last branch when Sarah comes over, tying off the knot which will keep the final bundle of logs securely together. She watches for a moment, eyes on his hands.

"You've helped an enormous amount today."

"That was the idea, right?" He glances up at her with a smile, tightening the knot before stretching. "Everyone getting together and making the place presentable again."

"Well, yeah. But I know you..." she pauses, searching for words. Becker waits out the brief silence, curious. "You don't really like social stuff," she finishes carefully.

"I'm-" he starts, but then doesn't know how to finish.

"Danny says you're military," Sarah says quietly, as if there's someone around to overhear them. The only other person visible in the lengthening shadows is Danny, and he's busy packing the composter. "That you're used to moving around every few months or so?"

"Pretty much."

She puts a hand on his arm, expression - not sympathetic, or pitying, more...acknowledging. Like she knows it's a strange life, but she gets the basics of it, and knows he doesn't want either of those emotions. "This must be weird for you, in that case," she comments. "But we're here, as friends, if you're ever in need or anything."

"I know," he tells her, because he does. It's just what this little community does, whether or not he's going to become a permanent resident.

"And you can always say no to our invitations," she adds earnestly, as if that wouldn't be rude when they've done so much already.

"I know," he reassures her with a chuckle, and she smiles. "I have done, remember?"

"Two out of five, Danny says." Her smile widens at his raised eyebrow. "You say yes to two out of every five invites we make."

"I'll have to make it three, now you've noticed."

Nodding, Sarah notices the axe in his hand. "Shall I take that?"

"I'd like to finish, if that's alright. Get it finished."

"No, no, that'd be great. Just drop it off whenever you've got a moment. And someone will be around tomorrow to pick up the rest of the bundles." Danny calls, and she gives him a quick hug before making her way over to where he's waiting. Becker waits until the lights from their car have faded before he turns back to his task, making short work of the small branches before starting to methodically chop the larger ones into sizeable logs.

\---

There's only one branch left, the biggest one, when a voice interrupts his rhythm. Wincing as he sets the axe down and his hands let him know how long they've been curled around the handle, Becker turns to see who called. He's working by the light of an old spotlight, grown dim with age but still serviceable enough to illuminate the area he needs it to, but whoever it was is still outside its range.

"Hello?" He has to make himself say it, fight the instinctual urge to blend into the shadows and wait for them to show themselves first. A figure gradually becomes clear, jogging across the newly cut grass of the churchyard, avoiding the gravestones even though they're little more than darker patches of shadow until they get closer to the light. It turns out to be a young man, bright red skinny jeans visible as soon as the edge of the light hits him.

"Hi," he says, breathless. He holds out a thermos flask, which Becker takes in confusion. "Abby sent me to make sure you're not dead and lying in a pool of blood because you accidentally chopped your own leg off, or suffering from dehydration, or -"

"Thanks," Becker interrupts, because he's getting the impression that the newcomer could go on for a while in the same vein.

"No problem." He grins and starts walking backwards, hands encased in fingerless gloves feeling slightly behind himself for any potential obstacles. "I'm Connor, by the way," he calls, already almost out of the spotlight's range.

"Becker."

"I know!" Then he's gone, just the echo of his shout from the lych gate remaining. Becker looks at the thermos in his hand. It's covered in stickers, the kind you collect as a kid and cover lunchboxes with. Dinosaurs. He peers at a particularly vicious-looking one before shaking his head and unscrewing the lid, pleased when the aroma of fresh tea reaches his nose. Abby had obviously realised that giving him coffee while he's in charge of an axe was not the best idea, and made the next best thing.

Taking a careful sip to test the temperature, he surveys the last branch and feels like he won't keel over before it's finished.

\---

Back home, aching from hard work that didn't result in things being blown up or people getting hurt, Becker knows he's adjusted a little bit more. There's even a fancy word for it: rehabilitation. The army psychiatrist used to like using it, to make sure he was aware that things were probably going to be difficult for him to start with. And it has been, he's not denying that; after never staying in one place longer than first his father's army orders and then his own, it had been a shock to his system to end up with a job contracting him to be in the same place for ten years.

He just doesn't like the word. _Rehabilitation_. Like he's forgotten how to have a normal life. It's harder than it should be, he knows that; a childhood and youth spent travelling from place to place, living in army barracks, means he's never been good at making friends beyond the superficial, but he's not socially incompetent. He just finds it gets awkward when people ask about his job, and he can't tell them much because it's all classified and wrapped in red tape.

He's lost count of the amount of times he's signed the Official Secrets Act. They should photocopy them to save time.

Just before he drops off to sleep he remembers Connor, all slim legs and dark hair in the poor light. Becker's been waiting to meet him for months, gradually coming to roll his eyes every time Connor cancels at the last minute, learning to laugh whenever Danny says it must because Connor heard what he does for a living, and got scared. Now he's not so sure he wanted to meet the man after all. He's learnt, over the years, how to recognise when he's about to get himself into a bad situation, and his gut instinct is telling him to steer well away.

The locker room is empty when he finishes his last class of the day, a group of ex-policemen looking to keep in shape as they look for the right security firms to hire on with. Danny had recommended him to a couple of them, which is both a professional and a personal thing to do, so he doesn't feel uncomfortable about accepting them into his course. Using his military training to teach bodyguards, ex-coppers and all manner of security personnel is not how he imagined his career going, but he's found he likes the change of pace, the chance to focus on something that isn't a gun.

He's just finished in the shower and is scrubbing a towel over his hair when Stephen comes in, looking tired but pleased. "I think I'll make good shots out of them yet," he says, flicking the catch on his locker.

"At the very least they'll know one end of a gun from the other," Becker says with a grin, remembering when several of the students on Stephens' course had been almost that clueless. He dresses as Stephen gets changed, the silence comfortable.

"I hear you were working with Nick Cutter on Sunday," Stephen says suddenly. Becker turns, surprised. Stephen looks tense, like he wishes he hadn't spoken. It's a strange look for the normally laid back man, and Becker keeps the frown off his face with effort.

"Yeah," he says, neutral. "We're neighbours, so when I got roped in to help clear up the churchyard, so did he." Stephen nods, the movement slightly jerky as he shrugs into his shirt. Closing his locker, Becker turns to face him fully. "What?"

"Nothing," Slamming his own locker shut, Stephen sighs, placing a hand on the metal. "Sorry."

Becker shrugs. "You want to talk about it?"

"Now that's something I never thought I'd hear you say," Stephen says, eyebrows raised and a slight smirk on his lips.

"Sarah's beating it into me that I can use words with more than one syllable," he says, and smiles when Stephen laughs. "And sometimes even ask someone a question, like what's going on?"

Swiping a hand over his face, Stephen grimaces. "Pint?"

\---

Half an hour later, settled in a booth in their local pub (well, local to work, which is what counts after a long day) with their second pint in front of them, Becker leans back and waits. He's good at that. He's been trained in patience, and it's worked in far more serious situations than this one. Their drink are only half gone when Stephen cracks, giving Becker a knowing look.

"I used to be Cutter's lab technician. And I was his student before that."

This time Becker doesn't need to frown. "Ah." If Stephen stares at his pint any harder there's a good chance it'll spontaneously combust, but Becker doesn't tell him so. Everything he needed to know about this is in Stephen's body language, the curl of his fingers around the glass and the tone of voice he used. "What happened?"

"I slept with his wife," Stephen says, "and regretted it every day." He pauses, swallowing down a gulp of beer with a grimace. "She went missing eight years ago, on a dig in Peru. _Then_," he continues bitterly, "she turned up six months ago, telling Nick she'd been studying a member of the _panthera_ family that was thought to have died out centuries ago, and had gone off the map."

"Let me guess," Becker interjects, although it's not a guess, not after his training and all his experience with humans under stress. "Cutter got angry about it, probably rejecting her, and when she saw how close the two of you were, she told him about the affair."

"It wasn't so much an affair-" Stephen starts, angry himself, but stops with a sigh. "Yeah. Pretty much. That obvious, huh?"

Becker shrugs. "I've had practice." He doesn't mention that it was in war zones, or generally through a translator; the look in Stephen's eyes says he knows enough that Becker doesn't have to. "Did you guys talk about it?"

"A bit," Stephen resumes staring at his pint, now reduced to the dregs. "It changed things, though. After a couple of incredibly awkward weeks I quit and took the job at the facility to get away from academia completely."

"And that was that." Becker leans against the back of the booth, raising his eyebrows in practiced disbelief as he looks at Stephen. It's a look he used to use on cadets and now uses on civilians who want to believe they're well-trained enough to be bodyguards, and he knows it works. After a moment Stephen drops his head to rest on the slightly sticky tabletop. He hasn't had enough to be drunk, not by far, but there's enough alcohol in him for Becker's Look to be much more effective than it would be on a stone-cold sober Stephen Hart.

"I could try again," he says, muffled. "We mostly just shouted."

"Good man," Becker says, and downs the rest of his own pint.

\---

Walking home slowly, Becker notices the figure outside Nick's house several minutes before he identifies it as Connor, arms folded and pacing up and down in an attempt to keep warm in the late autumn evening. He glances up at the sound of Becker's footsteps, making him stifle the sense of failure at not being silent that's an ingrained reaction still. Lifting a gloved hand, Connor waves.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." Looking up at the dark house, though he knows from the lack of a car on the drive that Nick isn't there, he asks, "Waiting for Cutter?"

Connor smiles, rueful. "He said to meet him to go over some university stuff. And I need to ask him about my dissertation." He pulls his other hand out from where it was tucked around his side, gesturing with a thin folder.

"Any reason why you haven't gone inside?" Becker has to hold back a laugh at the look of shy embarrassment Connor gives him, blinking as the amusement turns into the urge to do anything he can to help with barely a pause.

"I, um, forgot where he keeps the spare key."

Becker forces a smile, turning away to feel for the stone Nick keeps the key under in the dark so that he won't betray any of what he's starting to feel to Connor. The light from the streetlight at the end of the drive isn't that bright, but he was trained to never take any chances, and while this doesn't exactly fall into what the military considered the kind of situation to warrant this kind of response, he figures it's close enough. "And they let you work at the university."

"I know, it's crazy," Connor says with a small laugh. He beams when Becker opens the door and waves him inside with a flourish, stepping in to give him a brief and startling hug before continuing into the warm interior. Becker stands stock still for a bare moment, collecting his scattered thoughts and cursing himself in very inventive language for being so easily disarmed by a _hug_, of all the simple things.

"Need anything else?" He stays on the step, calling into the house rather than following. Connor sticks his head out of the living room, hat discarded somewhere amongst the heaps of papers and still grinning.

"Nope, thanks. My knight in shining armour can go on his way." He ducks back into the room, appearing just as Becker turns to do just that. "If there's an air strike, or a tank pulls onto the drive, I know where to find you." He laughs at the incredulous expression Becker sends his way. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."   
  
"If there is an air strike," Becker says solemnly, unable to help teasing even though his chest feels constricted, "then it's me trying to get rid of you."   
  
"You wouldn't dare," Connor shouts after him, laughter in his tone. Becker waves over his shoulder, not looking back for fear that he'll do something ridiculous, like offer to keep him company. He doesn't need to think very hard to know how that would end up: Connor would start rambling about something, then pull him closer to point something out in his dissertation, the hands that Becker is already fascinated with gesturing in that oddly graceful way he's catalogued in the back of his mind. He'd pause for a moment, to let Becker ask any questions, and Becker wouldn't be able to help himself. He'd lean in and kiss Connor, thread a hand through his dark hair and make a huge mistake.

Standing in his dark kitchen Becker reminds himself that he can have that now, that he's not bound by military conventions any more, although whether he can have it with Connor is a different thing altogether. He's probably that friendly and open with everyone, Becker reasons, though it makes him scowl, and he has to be imagining that Connor is doing anything remotely resembling flirting with him.

Still, he lingers until he hears Nick's car on the driveway, Connor's voice calling out a greeting.    
  
\---

Captain Ryan is impressed when Becker tells him about the conversation with Stephen a couple of days later.

"How did it feel?" He asks, as if he's merely curious and not poised to write notes. Well, mental ones; one of the thing Becker likes about him is that he doesn't sit with a pen in hand and a pad of paper in his lap, like everything will be recorded. He takes notes like a soldier still, in his head.

"What?" For a moment Becker thinks he means talking to someone about their problems, but it's never that simple.

"Helping solve a problem that doesn't involve guns, or explosives, or the possibility of people getting hurt."

"That still might happen," Becker points out, thinking of the subtext he'd read in Stephen's voice and words. With his training, it doesn't take much more than the addition of an open mind to see that there was more going on with Stephen than the loss of a good friend.

"True," Ryan concedes, a smile hovering around his mouth. "Physically hurt, then."

The rest of the session carries on in a similar vein, Ryan pressing him for details of his neighbours, his life, everything. Talking, Becker realises that he's pretty well settled. He's got standing invitations to dinner with Sarah and Danny, and he drops in on Abby without being asked sometimes. Nick and he wander into each other's houses on a fairly regular basis, although he's never got round to taking the man up on his offer of a tour round the university. Ryan asks, and talks, and discusses them with him, and it settles him even more.

He doesn't mention Connor, though.

\---

For the next couple of weeks Becker falls into a pattern of work, eat and sleep, to busy with an influx of trainees to do anything beyond the basics. Before he knows it he's got an answer phone full of messages inviting him to festive parties and a heap of Christmas cards that need to be replied to, not to mention the order to join Sarah and Danny (plus other guests) for Christmas dinner on the day itself. It's a pretty little invitation, all calligraphy and appropriately festive motifs, but it's still an order.

Nick turns up one Friday evening, his own invite in one hand, a folder full of essays and a couple of cards in the other. When Becker opens the door, Nick holds the invite in front of his face.

"Get your marching orders?" he asks with a grin. Becker rolls his eyes and steps back to let him in.

"You can stop, you know. I only called her a general the once."

"It's still funny." Dropping onto the sofa, Becker catches the cards that come flying his way. "One from Abby, left in my care because apparently you've dropped off the face of the earth and she's visiting family until the twenty eighth, and one from Connor."

Becker's ingrained training is the only thing that stops his head from lifting and that keeps his voice neutral as he opens the first envelope. "Connor? We've only met the once."

"Apparently you made an impression." He's distracted as he says it, but Becker can't help looking over at him, settled on the floor opposite, an essay on the coffee table in front of him and a pen busily inking comments onto the paper. The position will make his knees and back ache, but he insists it keeps him alert; considering how many times he's tried working in the armchair a few feet away, he's probably right. "He keeps asking after you."

"Oh?" He glances back down at Abby's card, reading the cheerful message without really taking it in.

"Mhm. Christ, these students haven't learnt a bloody thing all year." Nick moves on to the next essay with a grimace, sparing an amused glance for Becker. "Then again, he doesn't get out much."

"Funny."

He opens the card, cataloguing what Connor's handwriting looks like out of habit. There's a small P.S underneath Connor's scrawled signature, _what's your first name?_ sitting between it and the edge of the card. He laughs, ignoring both Nick's curious look and the low curl of something in his gut that he really doesn't want to acknowledge. Instead he pushes up from the sofa, asking “Drink?"

Nick flips a paper over, scanning a few lines. "Later. I'll need something to get rid of the memories of these abysmal excuses for essays."

After a moment's thought watching him add several more comments in red ink, Becker decides against starting without him and collects his own set of paperwork - although he chooses to sit at the kitchen table, not on the floor. They work in silence for an hour or so, something they do on occasion; with the promise of good alcohol and a decent chat waiting, they've both found that they get their respective jobs done a lot faster. Not used to sitting at a desk, Becker's had to adjust to it over the months since he started at the facility, pushing through boredom, the odd headache and the recurring feeling that he's not doing his job properly because he's filling out progress reports rather than being out training.

Now that he's got a handle on it, it serves as a welcome distraction from the card lying on the coffee table a few feet away, although he can't help but glance over a couple of times until finally Nick tosses an essay aside and it gets covered over. It's a pointless reaction, he keeps telling himself; he's met Connor _once_, for goodness sakes, and there's no way that a single, short meeting with a man who wears skinny jeans, fingerless gloves and ridiculous hats can have broken down the solid wall of willpower that Becker's had many years of training and active duty to build up.

Then he remembers Connor's smile, and how he'd walked backwards, and knows that this is part of civilian life that's he's just going to have to deal with.

He's managed so far, right? 

\---

He knows when Stephen turns up to talk to Nick. The shouting is audible even with his front door shut, and when he stands on the front step he can almost make out what they're saying. It's not something he should get involved in, though, or at least any more than he already has, so he turns to go back inside.

The sound of something smashing almost sends him over the hedge between the driveways, but then he remembers that the last argument he had like this took place in a warehouse full of dangerous weapons, so it can't be as risky as that.

So long as Stephen didn't bring his rifle, Becker's content to leave them to it.

\---

Nick is conspicuous by his absence for a few days after that, but Becker doesn't worry too much; Stephen doesn't have a silencer, and he's not so 'rehabilitated' that he'd miss the sound of a rifle going off. Reasoning that he's hiding at the university, Becker keeps an eye out for when he does get back. It's getting closer to Christmas after all, and Nick's got to come home at some point to get ready for dinner at Sarah's. When the day before the dinner arrives and Nick's car still isn't in his drive an hour after he should be back from the university, Becker decides he's had enough and sells Nick out. 

"_How long since he's been home?_" Sarah is concerned, but there's an edge to her tone that tells Becker Nick's in for a shock when she gets hold of him. He picks up the faint sound of heels against a tiled floor through the phone, and smiles.

"Are you going to see him?"

"_Absolutely_." He hears some muffled noises, probably doors opening, and then Sarah saying "_Nick Cutter!" _in a tone that makes it clear she's not going to tolerate any excuses or attempts at evading her questions. 

"I'll leave you to it," Becker says with a laugh, because she's already demanding to know what Nick is playing at, likely forgetting that she's still on the phone. He hangs up and shakes his head in amusement; chances are Sarah is telling Nick off for being at the university so much, when she's there herself on the day before Christmas Eve. They're both workaholics, not that Becker's got any room to talk, although between the two of them, Nick's the one who needs to be called on it.

An hour or so later a knock on the door calls Becker away from planning out a new training program, the smell of Chinese reaching him before he gets to it. Nick's standing on his step, takeaway bag in one hand, bottle of Scotch in the other and a glare on his face. 

"Traitor," is the first thing he says.

Becker smiles. "And yet you still brought Chinese."

"What makes you think there's some for you?" Nick pushes past him into the house, making straight for the kitchen. Becker shuts the door and goes to help, more amused than he probably should be.

"Because I can smell kung pao chicken, and you hate it."

Handing him a plate Nick grunts, bypassing the kitchen table for the comfort of the sofa and leaving Becker to sort his own food out. He looks worse than usual for a Friday evening, especially considering it's the holidays and he hasn't got any classes to prepare for, any lectures to give or any students to be concerned with.

Taking a seat and setting a beer on the table in front of Nick, Becker eschews asking questions in favour of letting Nick do the talking, digging into his food with hunger. In the end, there isn't that much to say. 

"You keep meddling like that, people are going to start thinking you care," Nick tells him, giving him a significant look over the top of his beer bottle.

"Is that a bad thing?"

Nick snorts, lifting his eyebrows. "You heard the argument, right?"

"I'm sorry," Becker says, leaning forward. He feels as if he's suddenly on shaky ground here, like perhaps he's not as settled into their lives as he needed to be in order to get involved. "I thought-"

"I'm joking, man," Nick interrupts with a chuckle. "You did the right thing, getting us to stop acting like a pair of children."

Becker sits back, surprised by the relief that floods through him. It's clear now that he's got more invested in these people than he thought he had; he's already accepted that he knows more about them than he's known about the members of the various teams he's been in or led, but the realisation of how much he cares is, perhaps, a little late, at least now that he thinks about it. Pushing aside the feeling, he points at Nick with his fork. "That wasn't fair."

Nick grins. "Neither was getting Stephen to turn up out of the blue."

"I didn't tell him _how_ to talk to you, just that he should." Thinking back, Becker shakes his head. "Come to think of it, I didn't even do that. He worked it out all by himself."

"You nudged him in my direction," Nick points out. "He told me about your conversation in the pub."

Becker waves it off. "Nudged, shoved - without using words or force, I might add - what's the difference. Did it help?"

"I threw the vase my wife bought me for our third wedding anniversary at a wall," Nick says dryly, "and didn't feel a thing except guilt that I almost hit Stephen."

"So..."

"It helped, yes. I've asked my solicitor to start divorce proceedings." At Becker's pointed look Nick sighs and slumps back onto the sofa. "It's more complicated than that. One argument isn't going to fix everything."

"It's a start," Becker tells him, and goes to get the Scotch.

\---

Sarah's house is a riot of colour, from evergreen branches winding up the banister to the completely bedecked tree sitting in a corner of their living room. Danny hands him a glass of wine as soon as he steps over the threshold, telling him, "You'll need it to cope with the decorations." Christmas in the house definitely falls under the control of Sarah, with Danny sitting back and keeping out of the way as much as he can. Becker sticks his head into the kitchen and is immediately shooed out by Sarah and Jenny. He takes a seat next to Danny in the living room, feeling slightly awkward at not doing anything to help. 

"They've got it all under control," Danny assures him. "They'll shout when they want us to do anything, don't worry." 

Nick turns up just as Sarah calls for Danny to carve the turkey, adding his presents to the heap already under the tree and accepting the wine Becker gets for him, taking the glass from his hand just as there's another knock at the door. With a glance at Sarah, Nick grimaces but goes to answer it, letting in a cold-looking Stephen. 

Becker turns to Sarah, eyebrows raised, but she just smiles at him and asks if he'll help put the starters on the table.

\---

When the food is gone, the plates cleared away and well-deserved compliments given to the culinary efforts of Sarah and Jenny (and to a lesser extent Danny, for the turkey carving), Nick takes Stephen by the elbow and makes their excuses, tugging him out of the door. Sarah waves them off from where she's curled up on the sofa, more wine in her hand and a satisfied expression on her face.

"Well, that wasn't as awkward as I expected," she says. Becker drops into an armchair to her left, shaking his head.

"Remind me to make sure I never get myself into a situation where you might be tempted to intervene," he tells her wryly. "That was almost cruel."

"Cruel would be letting them make even bigger fools of themselves," Jenny interjects, kicking her shoes off and joining Sarah with a sigh. "It's for their own good." 

Becker shares a look with Danny that pretty accurately conveys how little either one of them wants to get in the way of whatever scheme the women have got, and it hits him that this is his life now: instead of tactics and battle plans and weapons, all he's got to worry about now is what's going to come of his neighbours meddling with each other's lives.

It's so very normal and suburban, not to mention still overlaid with the faint sense of displacement, that it takes Becker a moment to realise Sarah is saying his name.

"What?"

"You've got another present," she says, stretching over the gap between chair and sofa to hand him the small gift. "It's one that Nick brought, but it's not his paper."

He twists the tag until he can read it, barely managing to conceal his surprise. "It's from Connor."

"Oh?" Jenny leans forward. "I didn't think you two had met."

"A couple of times," he replies, pulling at the sellotape holding the silvery paper wrapped around the item; a book, if he isn't mistaken. "I sent him a pair of gloves with fingers through Nick. Kind of a joke, really." He laughs when the last bit of tape gives way and he can get rid of the paper, revealing a book about the history of the rifle from lead shot to the technologically advanced kinds Stephen works with. He holds it up to show Sarah when she leans over, her expression curious. "I've had my eye on it for a while."

Danny laughs. "He must've asked Nick and taken him seriously, if all you sent were some gloves."

"Yeah," he murmurs, and stares down at the book as the conversation moves on around him.

\---

By the looks of things Nick isn't home when Becker walks back, so he makes a mental note to ask about the gift as soon as he can catch hold of the professor.

The worst thing he can do is hope; he knows that, because there's no basis for it. Not when he's only met Connor _twice_. And yet it slips into his mind, insidious and tempting, catching up with him in the rare moments that he isn't totally focused on the students or the paperwork, making him hope for a glimpse of Connor when he goes round to Nick's in the evenings.

As it turns out, Connor had asked Stephen about the book, who apparently hadn't thought twice about recommending it as a Christmas gift.

"He said he wanted to say thank you," Stephen shrugs, rifle slung over his shoulder. It's only when Becker actually opens the book that he gets what Stephen had meant; on the inside front cover, in the same scrawl from the Christmas card, is _For my knight in bullet-proof armour._ The wording might be different, but it still makes something in his chest tighten. Becker stares at it for a good five minutes before setting the book aside and going for a long run instead.

\---

Captain Ryan sees him one last time before signing him out of the mandatory sessions, their conversation far more informal this time, although it's never far from Becker's mind that Ryan will be writing up the relevant parts later. There are five minutes to go when Ryan asks, "Anyone special yet?"

Surprised, Becker covers before he can say anything too revealing. The sessions are about how he's adjusting to a (mostly) civilian life, not his emotional turmoil where one slim lab technician-slash-student is concerned - though if he is going to mention it, it should probably be to a shrink. He doesn't, though. "I've only just learnt the postman's name," he says. "It's going to take me longer than this."   
  
The look Ryan gives him says bullshit, but the other man doesn't call him on it. They shake hands, and Becker leaves to drill several would-be bodyguards in hand-to-hand combat.   
  
He tries not to think about Connor.

\---

For all Sarah likes to scheme, it's Abby who sticks her oar in and breaks the tenuous status quo Becker has managed to achieve. 

As if suddenly seeing Connor every time he went over to Nick's wasn't bad enough.

\---

Connor pushes the last box into the back of Becker's car, slamming the boot lid with a thud as Becker himself makes sure a lamp on the back seat is securely fastened down. Helping Connor move to a new house is not how he wants to spend his time, mostly because it entails being alone with Connor for a considerable part of the day, but partly because it reminds him of how many times he's moved, belongings packed neatly into a few boxes, boxes packed neatly into a car and not much more than that.

Driving the fifteen minutes to Connor's new place, Becker has to constantly remind himself to keep his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. He keeps glancing over at Connor, rambling on about the house, why he's moving, what's in the boxes, all sorts, and getting caught by his expressive face and the quirk of his lips. By the time they reach the small, neat property Becker's hands are white-knuckled from the effort of not reaching over and tangling his fingers through Connor's own, partially gloved ones.

Between them they get the boot open, Becker keeping hold of the boot lid for a moment so he doesn't reach down to steady Connor when he lean in for a box and stumbles against him. 

He's more than a little worried that he won't want to let go. 

\---

The moving van turns up before they're done, so Becker volunteers himself to help move furniture, knowing it's his safest bet; Connor keeps out of the way, appearing only to direct Becker and the van's driver to where he wants things put. It gives Becker a chance to give himself the mental equivalent of a kick in the head and tell himself to stop being so bloody obvious. He feels more in control when he waves the van off before going to check the boot for any more boxes. 

Connor's unpacking crockery with one hand and texting with the other when he brings another one in, setting it in the living room because it's marked 'books' in Connor's untidy handwriting. "Thanks," he calls, and Becker heads back outside with a wave of acknowledgement, ignoring how graceful Connor's hand looks as he deftly unwraps a bowl from its protective layer of newspaper. The texting should have made him pause, he later thinks, but by then it's too late.

Grabbing the last box, he balances it on one hip to shut the car boot before carrying on into the entrance hall. "Where do you want this one?" Turning a corner Becker steps into the kitchen, coming face-to-face with Connor as the student steps forward to meet him. 

Connor looks him in the eye, taking the box that's between them and setting it on the kitchen table without looking, and then leans in and touches his lips to Becker's. It's soft but deliberate, Connor lingering just long enough to get the message across but not so long that it becomes awkward. When he pulls back, Becker blinks at him, but before he can say anything Connor's ridiculous ringtone breaks in. 

Tugging it out of a tight pocket, Connor glances at the screen. "It's Nick." He looks up again, eyes dark and fixed on Becker. "Stay there," he instructs, as if Becker's going to run off the moment he turns away to answer the call. And maybe he would have, would've left the rest of the boxes on Connor's front step and driven off while Nick was talking. But he won't, can't, not now Connor's told him to stay. 

\--- 

There are some small plants already placed on the kitchen windowsill, thin and bedraggled-looking. They could be anything for all Becker knows; herbs, tomatoes, geraniums. He's never been interested in that sort of thing. When Connor comes back, phone held loosely in one hand, he glances over to where Becker's looking.

"They're beans," he says, neutral. For a moment Becker thinks they're not going to talk about what happened before Nick rang, but then Connor's eyes slide away from the plants and fix on his. "They put out little roots at first, tiny things, to decide whether the soil is good enough for them to grow. Then, if it is, they put out bigger ones, loads of them, until they're firmly anchored and can't be moved very easily."

There's a patch of sunshine on Connor's kitchen table, bright and incongruous. Becker stares at it. He knows what Connor is talking about, knows what he's asking.

"I'm not a bean plant." More like an autumn leaf, like the ones being blown across the street outside, or tumbleweed, if you prefer the classics.

"I know," Connor says, a smile tilting the corners of his mouth up. Becker wants to touch. "But you could try? Start off small, like them, and get, I dunno, more serious?"

_Moving houses so often it was like Monopoly, and then Sandhurst, and after that moving countries so often he'd barely got used to one terrain before he was sent off to learn how to fight in a different one, life spent learning weapons and tactics, not how to have a life outside of it. Missing out but not realising it, not until he met a man with fingerless gloves and tight jeans and the sort of smile that makes Becker want to learn his body the way he's learnt his gun, inside out, back to front, over and over...  
_ _  
_"I can try."


End file.
